


Le Seul Innocent

by the1crazycatlady



Series: Sous la lumière de la lune [1]
Category: Notre-Dame de Paris - Cocciante/Plamondon, Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - All Media Types
Genre: Canon - Musical, Churches & Cathedrals, Flashbacks, Homelessness, Male Friendship, Marriage of Convenience, Multi, Narrator Powers, Priests, Rants, Secret Crush, Secrets, Subtext, Unreliable Narrator, architecture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:33:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 13,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4430270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the1crazycatlady/pseuds/the1crazycatlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, the rock opera/musical adaptation the way I see it taking place in a non-musical format and from Pierre Gringoire's perspective. It focuses mostly on his part in the story as the homeless street troubadour with mystical narrator powers he doesn't understand as he rants about architecture with his good friend Dom Claude, is forced into a marriage with that pretty gypsy girl everyone except him is so fatally attracted to, alludes to his mysterious unnamed crush, etc.</p><p>Everyone dies the way they did canonically, by the way, but I plan to post my happier alternate ending as soon as I'm done with what actually happened (because I make references to this fic in the AE). I don't own anything and would appreciate it if anyone who has a problem with my interpretation would keep their thoughts to themself unless they point it out in a very polite manner. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overture

You watch it and see all the stories, the different tales interwoven in a confused drama. There's poor, sweet little Esmeralda, hopelessly smitten with the conflicted soldier, Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers. The good captain can't decide between Esmeralda and his betrothed, the lovely Fleur-de-lys. Fleur-de-lys, meanwhile, is lost, trying to save her failing relationship with Phoebus – at any cost.

You also see Clopin, working to make an equal place for himself and the other refugees. But he is stopped by Dom Claude Frollo, the cold archdeacon of Notre Dame. Dom Claude has a few troubles of his own, and they come haunt him in the night.

All these troubles, all those stories. I was the one to tell their tales, for they could not do it themselves. No one ever questions my word, wonders how I know the things I do.

No one ever asks what my story is. No one wonders. I am simply the Narrator.


	2. Le temps des cathedrales

This story took its place in fair Paris, in the year of our Lord, 1482. It is a tale of love...and of desire. I am the one left to tell the tale – I, an unknown artist, left to wander the streets and live the life of the troubadour. I shall attempt to transcribe the whole story for you and for the future ancestors.

It was a wonderful time, the time of the cathedrals. The world was entering a new millennium, and as it did, Man looked up at the sky. He looked up and saw that night had fallen, that the time of the cathedrals had come. He reached for the stars he saw to write his story, but not on paper. That form of thought had not yet come. He strove to write his story in stained glass and smooth stone.

He built magnificent cathedrals. Brick by brick, day by day, the cathedrals rose up to the stars Man reached for. Centuries came and went, and Man's love never ceased. He watched the towers rise and felt pride, that worthless sin. He had built that cathedral, that great feat of architecture, with his own two hands – surely he wasn't expected to simply be modest?

The cathedrals grew, rose, expanded, and we poets and minstrels sang our songs of love. The songs promised better times for all mankind then and to come. The world was prosperous and new, forming magical, magnificent feats. Good times were upon us.

But this time is gone. The time of the cathedrals has passed, pushed away by so-called progress. Hordes of barbarians stormed the city gates, pressing their way into the beautiful cities. The strangers, foreigners, all wanting sanctuary.

Let the strangers in. Let them in, those pagans, vandals. Let them ruin architecture and it's glory. Now buildings are simply that: buildings. No longer are they transcribements for Man to enjoy. Man grew tired of his old way of thinking and thought up something far, far better. Something that takes less time to build.

The love is gone. Thought has been spread to anyone who pleases to utter a word, no longer to those who deserve to speak.

The end of this world is predicted for 2000.


	3. Ces diamants-là

The refugees entered Paris. They stepped up to Notre Dame – ah, the queen of all cathedrals! - and begged for asylum. The Archdeacon refused them, stepping out onto the porch and ordering for Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers, captain of the King's royal archers, to get rid of the “filth.”

“I thought it was the nature of the church to give asylum to any who ask for it,” I remarked as he stepped back inside. Dom Claude looked over at me, his dark eyes flashing fire beneath the cowl of his cloak.

“You know just as well as I do that these are changing times,” he stated, shuffling past me. “The Church has to refuse now.”

“Yes, the times are changing,” I agreed, hurrying along after him, “ but what harm could the refugees cause to the church? What harm could it be to keep them?”

“Monsieur Gringoire,” he interrupted, stopping and turning to face me. “They are a disruption to the faithful children of God, paganistic and foreign. They are not like us, therefore they cannot be trusted.”

He hesitated, as if he wanted to add more, then turned roughly and walked away, hands clasped as he muttered some inaudible Latin.

I watched him disappear around a corner, then turned and walked away myself. As I stepped out of the Church, I remembered that I had left my coat in the Archdeacon's cloister-cell. I shrugged off the nagging feelings of remembrance and hurried away. I decided to come back later and get my coat; it was an excuse to see the priest again.

The day was remarkably warm, considering it was January, so I put my coat out of my head and let myself take in the sweet air. People were running around me, giggling and whispering about the Feast of Fools celebrations taking place at the Palace of Justice. They ran off and I looked up.

I saw a captain, garbed in chainmail, standing on a balcony and exchanging tête-à-tête with a lovely, young blonde dame in a gauzy pink gown. It was Captain Phoebus and his fiancee, Fleur-de-lys. Their hands were clasped and they seemed to have dissolved their conversation into fond staring. They were to be married soon, joined together as one in complete harmony.

Well... “Complete harmony” might be a somewhat strong way to put it. Their relationship has not been a happy one from the start, but back to this.


	4. La fête des fous

The Palace of Justice was very busy when I arrived. I found that the Vagabonds had sought refuge there temporarily and were running the festivities. Currently, the festivities consisted mostly of running around, screaming about the Feast and being an earsore.

 _Well, this simply won't do for a Feast of Fools,_  I thought, already climbing up onto the marble table serving as some sort of stage. I climbed up and clapped my hands for attention. Then I shouted in my loudest voice, still clapping, “I will preside over this Feast of Fools, now! I know how it's done, and we'll all have such fun, you hear?”

Everyone cheered. “The Feast of Fools! The Feast of Fools!”

“Now,” I began, raising my hands up so everyone would know that it was _moi_ who was in charge of the Feast now. “Take the ugliest of everyone on the street. Let them parade on the city's main square, and the one from that crowd that has the ugliest face in all of Paris will get the crown.”

“The Pope of Fools!” people shouted. “The Pope of Fools!”

“The Pope of Fools will wear the crown!”

And so people paraded the square. First a tall, thin man with threadbare clothing. His face was ugly enough, but not enough to win the crown. He was shoved away for the next people. A fat man. An old woman with more lines and wrinkles than a face - etcetera.

Alas, none were satisfactory.

“The Feast of Fools!” everyone screamed. “The Feast of Fools!”

I was pushing away the latest failure when movement in the back of the room caught my eye. Now, there was a lot of movement, but no one hid the shadows. And no one had a bent back with their head sunk into their shoulders.

“Look, Fools!” I cried, pointing into the shadows. “Who could that be there, hiding away in the back? Is he not the monster that will wear the crown?”

“The Pope of Fools! The Pope of Fools!”

Those closest to this new arrival grabbed at him and pulled him out. I recognized the fellow – how had I not earlier? It was Dom Claude's foster child. He certainly was better when viewed in the shadows, because then you wouldn't see his naturally ugly face. He had a wen like the egg of a demon over one eye, an upturned nose, and a grin perfectly suited for the rest of his monstrous body. Words themselves cannot describe this creature fully - a giant crumbled to pieces and wretchedly put back together, perhaps.

“He will wear the crown!” it was decided.

“The Pope of Fools!”

The monster was the bell-ringer of Notre Dame, the hunchback. There are none who can compete with the hideous face of Quasimodo. His name suited him: quasi-human. Indeed, he better fit in among the gargoyles he made company with, even if he was human and they were stone.

A young gypsy girl – only sixteen and yet she looked so much older – came forward with the crown for the Pope. Her presence struck beauty into the hearts of everyone present. Her green dress, ragged and tattered from years of use, brushed along the floor with each step she took. Her red hair shimmered in the light, and one could almost see her as an angel.

I did not know then, but this was Esmeralda. It was not until much later that I learned of her name, and her story.

Esmeralda stepped over to Quasimodo and crowned him. He gave her The Eye and she turned contemptibly, spraying him with confetti.

“Hunchbacked gimp who's missing an eye!” I called. “Yes, he's the one who'll wear the crown.”

Quasimodo was placed in the Throne of the Fools and led out of the Palace of Justice. Everyone cheered about their new Pope. Before my very eyes, the Palace was emptied, leaving me alone in the great building.

“What, leave me behind?” I asked aloud. “Who's the real fool here, I wonder?”

However, I jumped off the table and rushed out after the Fools that everyone knew about.


	5. Le pape des fous

Having been entrusted with the task of narration, I know what Quasimodo was thinking as the parade made its way through the many streets of Paris. Poor hunchback, he was delusional!

He kept looking at his new subjects, thinking about how he then had the power of a king, and the little girls would no longer mock him. He was no longer "uasimodo the Beast" or "Quasimodo the Hunchback", just simply "Quasimodo."

However, despite this supposed new power he had, Esmeralda still wouldn't love him. Quasimodo knew this. She couldn't care less.

The poor hunchback, suffering from indifferent love. His parents heartlessly abandoned him as a child, leaving him as a foundling at Notre Dame. Claude Frollo, then a young priest, took the ugly child in and raised him as his own. Quasimodo hated his biological parents for their abandonment, for selling their souls and making him so hideous.

Esmeralda didn't care. She could care less that Quasimodo had been crowned the Pope of Fools. This made him sad; she would never love him.

I pity this poor hunchback, with his great heart trapped beneath such a frightening shell. He was a good person, despite his appearance. We mocked him because we were scared of him, because we couldn't see beneath the flesh.

~~He~~  

~~This hunchback~~

I find it difficult to form words now. This poor creature has stirred such remorse within me. Perhaps things would have been different had I done something. Perhaps they would all still be among us.

Perhaps he would not have left so violently...if at all...


	6. La sorcière

The parade entered the Place du Parvis and stopped almost immediately. Even though I was at the tail of things, I could very plainly see why. Peeking over the heads with lion-like manes, I saw Dom Claude.

He stormed out of the church, pointing at Quasimodo with his eyes set in a glare. Then he lowered his arm and came over, hands stiffly at his side. As he passed by Esmeralda, he shot her a particularly vicious look, then carried on his way. I pushed my way through the crowd.

Dom Claude pulled the crown off of Quasimodo's head and put it down on the throne. Then he grabbed Quasimodo's arm roughly and pulled him away.

“Beware!” the Archdeacon warned, “that girl is not from here.” He turned and began to walk back over to Esmeralda. “She's a gypsy, a witch; nothing but a bitch and a streetcat!”

Esmeralda spat at him and he turned back to Quasimodo. “An animal on the prowl,” the priest continued. “She's barefoot and homeless, the mortal sin incarnate. She ought to be imprisoned.”

The priest looked back at Esmeralda, then bent down closer to Quasimodo, pulling the hunchback close and making his words nearly inaudible. I stayed rooted where I was, watching them. Meanwhile, everyone else left the scene, grumbling about their “ruined Feast of Fools.”

“We must act tonight,” Frollo hissed, “to stop this pillage of the hearts and souls of Notre Dame's children. We'll chase her in the alleys and take her away. We'll lock her in the tower...”

I found myself growing ill - nausea came over me and I shook my head, trying not to hear anything else. To my right was an alley leading to the Pont-au-Change; I hurried over to it, trying to not listen.

“...And teach her the one true religion of Jesus and the Holy Mother...”

Then I couldn't hear them anymore. However, it only took a few steps before I remembered that I had left my coat in Dom Claude's cell.

_Damn._


	7. Les portes de Paris

After getting my coat back into my possession from Dom Claude's cell - I knew where he kept the spare key, thankfully - I made my way to the Pont-au-Change. The sun was beginning to set, and I couldn't help but muse over what I had overheard the Archdeacon telling Quasimodo: that they would stalk the gypsy girl and hunt her down, then lock her up on a tower and teach her Christianity. Esmeralda was such a free creature, being locked up was so demeaning to her spirit later.

As much as I tried not to think about it, the hisses and snarls in Dom Claude's tone came back harshest. Surely he wouldn't kidnap the sweet girl – of all the unpriestly things to do! Dom Claude was a proud priest, he would never. Never.

And yet he  _had_  been somewhat ill at ease lately. But surely it had surely just been my imagination. Sometimes he could get a little moody...but not for months on end...

Upon reaching the Pont-au-Change, the sun had near-fully set, leaving this poet with the unsettling but usual prospect of finding a place to sleep for the night. It had been warm earlier; now I shivered in my threadbare coat.

I stepped onto the bridge and peered down into the murky depths of the river. Then, as if I had heard her petticoats ruffle, I looked across the bridge and saw an angel.

I recognized her faintly as being the sweet creature from earlier - the one who had crowned Quasimodo and Dom Claude later had insulted. As of then, I still did not know her name; she seemed heavenly in the moonshine.

The angel made eye contact with me and smiled. Then, in the blink of an eye, she turned, disappearing just as the sun completely disappeared behind the hills.

I stood there, dazed and rooted for a fraction of a moment. Then I followed her into the streets of Paris; after all, angels were generous with lodgings and other such things, no?

Alas, despite my determination to tail her, the angel soon vanished. I was left to wander the streets of Paris during the nightly hour, the hour when Our Lady turns Her head and shields Her eyes so not to view the licentiousness.

The gates of Paris close at dusk and are followed closely by the shrieks and laughter of nighttime. When the darkness envelops Paris, nocturnal desires reign. All vices are satisfied in the heat of the city.

It was a showplace of lust. Women strolled the streets, their skirts as high as their knees, shoulders bare and fronts ghastly low. I paused and watched briefly as a man grabbed a woman and pinned her against the wall. Then I quickly hurried off, disliking the idea of staying to watch them make love or whatever it is they were about to do. It would only remind me of things that were better left forgotten.


	8. Le cour de miracles

It began with me being hopelessly lost.

“Where am I...?” I mumbled to myself, seeming to get deeper into the dark, lascivious streets of Paris. I wasn't even sure where I was going, which street led where. I knew that I was walking in unfamiliar territory, on foreign ground.

The silence of the night was suddenly pierced by faint laughter and shouting. I stopped wandering nowhere and peaked around the street corner. Some ways away, breaking through the darkness, there was a shaft of yellow light with shadows dancing in it. I wasn't particularly sure if it was a safe place to seek refuge for the night, but I was left with no choice; the night got colder with each passing second.

I went over to the light and stepped into a sea of bodies. The wall of heat hit me instantly and I took my coat off, swinging it over my shoulder. I looked around, trying to figure out what that strange place was.

_Do I want to know?_  I wondered, seeing a makedo gibbet. I swallowed and suddenly noticed all the uncomforting details of the place; namely, how many people had visible daggers, the upsetting red stains on the wall, and the stench of rotting flesh mingled in with the sweat and wine. I held back a gag and looked away.

I saw a peg and decided that it should be safe enough to hang up my coat. It's a threadbare old thing, so there isn't a reason anyone would want it unless they are a sentimental old fool like me. I hung the coat and pushed through the people, catching bits of the various conversations.

In one corner, there was a dark-skinned man with earrings and random clothing – I assume a gypsy, though I can't really say – singing a drinking song with a villainous-looking fellow. Everyone passed around drinks, so many drinking from the same cup. It was rowdy. It was loud.

The singing was decent. I began to applaud the gypsy and the villain. “Bravo, bravos! Wonderful job!”

“Gringoire the Bard!” a man addressed. Looking up, I saw a man with dark skin and long hair in dreadlocks sitting in the rafters. This was Clopin, King of the Refugees; he was at Notre Dame earlier during my first visit.

“That is I!” I called with a flourishing bow.

“You have trespassed upon our sacred ground here in the Court of Miracles,” Clopin declared. I felt two goons grab me from behind and pull me over to the dreaded makedo gibbet.

“...You will hang as a result.”

“Hang!” I gasped as the noose was tied around my neck. Then they tied my hands together. The world began to flash before my eyes in sporadic intervals. Me as a child, wandering the streets and looking for dinner - the first time I saw real paper, how curious I was - a figure in black, reaching out a hand to pull me from the gutter, their body silhouetted against the sunlit sky; I suddenly felt regretful. There were so many things I should have done...to die now...before I got a chance to tell the truth...

“You will hang,” Clopin repeated, “unless a woman will take you for her husband.”

So now my life depended on a woman deciding I was worth her time. I knew the chances were slim; I am neither attractive nor wealthy, those two traits women look for in men.

“But I warn you, Gringoire,” Clopin continued, “the poets of France are only fit to hang.”

Three girls came up to me. I recognized one of them as one as a girl from the Cabaret du Val d'Amour.

“What do you think, Marie?” one asked.

“He's awfully thin,” the brunette named Marie replied. “And look at that hair! I dare say it's longer than mine.” She grabbed a chunk of my hair and pulled.

As close to death as I was, I decided that I did not want Marie to choose me. I still shudder at the thought.

“You two have him,” Marie said, walking off. The other girls studied me.

“Please,” I begged. “Have pity on a pathetic troubadour.”

The girl from Val d'Amour scrutinized me, then waved an indifferent hand. “Husbands are too much trouble in my line of work.”

There was only one girl left. My eyes pleaded and begged with her - she looked at me.

“Where is your cloak?” she wondered eventually.

“Alas, my dear, it is that tattered old thing over by the door there.” I gestured with my head.

“Well, what about a hat?”

“I am not granted such a fortune.”

“Your shoes?”

“The soles are coming off.”

“What about a purse?”

“Alas!” I cried, shaking my head, “I haven't a single denier parisis.”

“Then be hanged," she announced, "and be welcome!”

With that, I was left alone, a noose around my neck and tears pricking my eyes. I was going to die, and all I could see was the black silhouette again and  _again-_

“What about you, my beauty?” Clopin shouted down from his mount. “My lovely Esmeralda, will you take this worthless minstrel to be your husband?”

Brief flickers of hope were lit again; I looked to where it was Clopin shouted and saw the angel, the gypsy girl. She had just entered the Court of Miracles, her hair slightly ruffled from when Captain Phoebus had saved her from the hunchback, all while under the watchful eye of the archdeacon. I bit my lip just looking at her.

“If he's free,” the girl began, parting the crowd aside and making her way to me, “I'll take him.”

She reached me then and began to untie my hands. I allowed myself to breathe, my head swimming from the relief of everything. I could barely think straight, and I didn't understand anything except that God had finally been merciful that night.

“Fine!” Clopin spat. “But you can have him only as a spouse, not as a lover!”

I was alive. And, somehow, about to be married to the lovely Esmeralda.


	9. Le mot Phoebus

Later, in our joint room that evening, Esmeralda asked: “Now may I know to whom I've the honor of marrying?” There was a smile on her face, and, like a bird, I preened my feathers.

“I am Gringoire the Bard,” I stated, puffing out my chest; “the prince of Paris's streets.”

“Ooh, the prince of Paris's streets, hm?” Esmeralda smirked.

“Fair Esmeralda,” I began, “I will have you know that I am not a ladies' man...but, if you desire...” I reached out and grabbed her hand, pressing it against my chest. “I will make you my nymph, my muse, my lady.”

She seemed flattered, but pulled her hand away.

“Tell me, poet, you who can read and write,” she asked, “do you know what 'Phoebus' means?”

As the Narrator, I knew that this was the name of the captain of the royal arches that had come and saved her from being carried away by Quasimodo earlier that evening. Dom Claude had carried through with his plan. Throughout the course of the evening, I had been too busy nearly getting hung and dancing with Esmeralda to muse over this new development.

I decided to speed up the story for those watching; it was a small act of rebellion on my part.

“By Jupiter!” I swore. “Who on this earth dares to go by this name?”

“He's the one for whom my heart beats,” Esmeralda stated, her tone so as-a-matter-of-factly.

Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers had rushed in with his archers and saved Esmeralda from Quasimodo. Then he had begun to flirt quite shamelessly with the gypsy girl, who had been pleased with the attention from  _such_  an attractive man. However, she acted indifferent - but still agreed to meet him the following night at the Cabaret du Val d'Amour.

I knew this love she felt for the captain would bring no goodness, if wasn't the death of her. However, when one is the Narrator, one must put aside their personal emotions, even when it means watching someone they care for be their own demise.

“If I recall my Latin,” I began, trying to ignore this girl's fate, “the word 'Phoebus' means 'sun.'”

“ 'Phoebus' means 'sun,'” she repeated, sounding awed.

I prepared to say more, but she had very quickly stood up and gone into her own private chamber adjacent mine. I sat there, thinking, then lay back with a quiet shake of the head.

Such a strange wedding night.


	10. Anarkia

When I woke up, the first thing I decided to do was pay Dom Claude a visit. Esmeralda had left some bread on the table; shoving it in my mouth, I set out to retrieve my coat. It was still hanging shabbily from it's worm-eaten peg. I reached out for it and someone very strong grabbed my wrist. I was shoved against the wall and a knife was pressed against my throat.

“M-M-M-Monsieur Clopin!” I stammered, my heart thundering as the knife's coldness sent a chill up the back of my neck.

“Listen up, minstrel,” he hissed, not seeming to be much for formal politeness then. “I don't want you getting any ideas, understood?”

“Wh-what ideas?”

“Any ideas about Esmeralda. If you so much as  _look_  at her the wrong way, this knife will be the last thing you ever see. Do I make myself clear?”

“Very,” I said. “And I would never-”

He interrupted me by removing the knife, but being sure to leave a slight nick – as some sort of reminder, I suppose. I pulled myself away from him and pressed my fingers to my throat. Blood wet them.

“Glad we have an agreement,” Clopin stated. Then, without another word, he tucked the knife into some hidden place and flitted away like a satisfied wasp.

\+   +   +

A blonde priest with thick eyebrows told me that the Archdeacon was in some important religious meeting and, therefore, was unable to see me as of yet.

“Where can I wait for him?”

The Gallery of Kings would be fine, I was told.

While I waited, I studied the architecture, running my fingers along the smooth stone and tracing the subtle, yet intricate designs. It was all such magnificent work – someone had obviously put a great deal of effort into all those designs, determined to make a dramatic religious statement. The whole cathedral was a dramatic religious statement, created with love and ardent passion by some sinless and holy man. He strove to create something worthy of God, and Notre Dame was the result.

Entranced by the artwork, completely sucked into its magnificence, I walked, examining the wall as I went by. My hand rested gently on the balustrade, and it was smooth and cold to my touch.

Soon the Gallery of Kings melted away to a different hallway, this one dark and hidden beneath an overhanging roof. My eyes adjusted to the light softly, and I looked around. The place was dusty and spider-ridden; it had not been visited recently.

I turned to the wall, expecting to see more beautiful work, but the wall was almost completely clean. True, it was worn by time and Man's paganistic defiance, but it was still smooth. Now and here there were scattered words. The largest and freshest word was something I did not understand.

_Anarkia._

“What is this,” I murmured, trailing my fingertips along the letters. Dust lifted and I sneezed involuntarily, my gaze still not leaving the wall. Perhaps it was some religious reference? It did not look like Latin...

“Gringoire? Pierre Gringoire?”

I tore my gaze away from the word and peeked around the wall. “Dom Claude!” I greeted, stepping back into the Gallery. He looked away from the Place du Parvis and at me.

“The blonde priest said that you wanted to see me,” he said, his words sounding slow and deliberate, even difficult. “Well? What, why?”

In truth, there was no reason, except for the whole idea of such a visit. I grunted a slight noise, ignored his question, and peered down into the Place. There I saw Esmeralda, dancing.

“Such a fine creature there, don't you agree, Dom Claude?” I wondered. He jerked his head to look at the gypsy, then turned away, leaning back against the balustrade.

“She is a witch,” he declared.

“Who, her?” I asked. Then I shook my head. “Not such an innocent and naive young thing.”

“You should not judge based solely on appearance, Gringoire.”

“I'm not.” I smiled down at Esmeralda, and Dom Claude didn't say anything at first, then spoke in a low, hiss-like murmur.

“You and she seem almost...” He paused, looking me up and down. _“Acquainted.”_  

I smiled again and watched as the gypsy girl twirled on the pavement.

“Gringoire, who is this girl who dances her dance of shame before Notre Dame?” he spat, demanding my attention.

“The girl is my wife,” I replied coolly. “She was given to me by the King of the Gypsies.”

The whole story now seemed so romantic and silly, and I grinned, preparing to tell him everything - but he was angry.

“Vassal of Satan!” he insulted. I jerked a gaze to him. “Did you touch her?”

The very  _suggestion!_  “I wouldn't dare-!”

Like Clopin, he interrupted me; the priest pointed, his finger so close to my face. “And I forbid you!” he shouted.

I cocked an eyebrow and decided that the best course of action would be to change the subject to something not related to Esmeralda.

“I would like to show you an inscription I found,” I began, gesturing with my head for him to follow me. I led him to the dark and abandoned walkway. “Here, on the stone.” I pointed at it and he inhaled a breath, ice and cold.

“What does it mean,” I wondered, “this word, 'anarkia'?”

“You're a possessed man!” he responded, walking quickly away. “The Greek word 'anarkia' signifies 'fate'!”

I can only assume that the reason the priest was so disturbed with the word was because of his strict religious lifestyle, or something of that sort; he was difficult to read at times. I followed him back to the Gallery of Kings, then leaned against the balustrade next to him. I looked back out at the square and saw a group of soldiers dragging a struggling red man towards the pillory. My eyesight is wretched, but I saw that the man was rather blob-like in shape, wearing red.

“Is that not Quasimodo they're taking away down there?” I asked, pointing. As I spoke, I leaned a bit closer to him, putting hand on his back. He stepped away and I subconsciously rubbed my fingers together.

Frollo's reply to my words was curt. “He's got himself arrested, the fool.” I glanced over at him and saw that he was glowering at me. “Only God knows why.”

We watched as Quasimodo was tied to the pillory – horribly,  _horribly_  slowly – and a crowd began to gather.

“Surely you'll go get him?” I inquired.

“Why would I?” he replied, making eye contact with me again. I turned my body so as to get a better look at him this time. “He has to know that there is justice outside these walls. They can't shelter him forever." He paused. "I can't shelter him forever.”


	11. À boire

“Hunchback!” the crowd shouted. Dom Claude screamed with them. “Rapist! One-eyed, lame! You damned ringer of the bells!”

“Pray for him, the poor sinner,” the priest muttered. Then he looked up at the sky. “Have mercy on him, Good Lord.”

He lowered his gaze, rewarded me a brief glance, then turned and went away, towards 'anarkia.' I looked down at the poor hunchback, then couldn't bear it and left the cathedral. However, I was was quickly swept into the sea of spectators and forced to behold the scene regardless of my personal feelings.

They whipped Quasimodo, blood splattering pell-mell. And yet that was not the worst of it. Quasimodo shouted at the crowd as the whip struck his crooked back, begging,  _pleading_  for something no one cared to provide.

“Mercy for poor Quasimodo!” he wailed. “He who carries all the world's woes on his back only asks you for a meager drop of water.”

No one sanctioned his request. The people of 1482 were enjoying his cries.

“Have mercy, public,” he continued, “for this faithful servant of the Lord! Only a drop of water, I beg you!”

Everyone laughed.

“A drink!” he begged. “A drink!”

And then an angel came and listened to his pleads. Her green dress sparkling in the sunlight, Esmeralda walked up to the pillory; the wood halted at the touch of her dainty little foot. Quasimodo winced, looking away out of shame.

Esmeralda pulled a brown rag out of her bosom and began to wipe Quasimodo's head; she was silent – we all were silent. Everyone was awed by such an act of pity for so hideous a monster.

“Give me something to drink,” Quasimodo said.

The gypsy girl tilted water into his mouth from a square-shaped cup. The hunchback drank ravenously, and soon there was no more. Esmeralda turned and left as angelically as she had come.

Quasimodo was released. “Belle,” he murmured as the soldiers untied his bonds. “Belle.”


	12. Belle

There were so many thoughts and emotions coming from our characters, all of whom were so different and yet couldn't be thinking any more strangely similar thoughts.

Quasimodo sat at the pillory, watching Esmeralda go about her merry way. He did not move - perhaps he couldn't. “Belle,” he murmured.

It was a word that was invented for the lovely gypsy girl, he thought. And when she danced, revealing that fine body like some bird spreading its wings to fly, he felt the devil take him by the feet. But Quasimodo didn't care; he looked beneath her gypsy dress, heedless of God. What shall he pray to Mary for?

Who, Quasimodo wondered, looking around at all the men within visible distance, would be the first to cast a stone at her? Whomever it would be, he did not deserve to live.

Quasimodo was desperate. He murmured a prayer to Satan. “Oh, Lucifer, oh, let me just once pass my fingers through her hair.”

Esmeralda.

I turned away from the hunchback, awed by such emotion coming from the monster and also frightened for the gypsy girl. Without thinking, I looked up at the cathedral; there was the black speck of Dom Claude's form, watching from his place in the clouds. I did not hear him, but I knew him well enough.

“Belle,” he muttered to himself.

He wondered if Esmeralda was the carnation of the Devil, come to lead him from the Eternal Lord. This carnation had bewitched him with carnal desire, and wanted to turn him against Heaven above. He was sure that she carried the original sin inside her.

Was he a criminal to desire her, he wondered. She, this gypsy girl everyone thought to be a whore, a petty girl of the street, now - to him - she seemed to be the burden of humanity.

He didn't care.

Dom Claude looked up and ran his hand along a pillar of the church. He did what a man like him does best in such situations: he prayed.

“Oh, I beseech you, Notre Dame, oh, allow me...just once – the entrance to Esmeralda's garden.”

It was horrible. It was wrong. He was a priest, she was a sixteen-year-old gypsy girl. I couldn't believe it. It struck hold inside, and I saw the truth of it. His behavior now made sense, and it wasn't until I heard Phoebus's thoughts that I was able to look away, albeit reluctantly.

“Belle,” Phoebus remarked from the balcony of his fiancee's mansion.

Those dark eyes of Esmeralda's cast a bewitching spell, and Phoebus wondered if she was still a maiden. When she moved, she promised the captain the earth beneath her skirt.

Phoebus turned to poor Fleur-de-lys, who had been looking at him helplessly.

“My betrothed,” he began, “before we're joined by God, I ask you to leave me one infidelity. After all,” he turned back to spying on Esmeralda, “what man could resist gazing at her at the risk of becoming transfixed?

“Oh, Fleur-de-lys,” he sighed, ignoring the poor little girl's pleadings, “I'm not a man to trust.”

He planned to pluck the flower of Esmeralda's love. Based on the gypsy's behavior the night before, I knew that he would have little trouble from her.

The three men gazed beneath her gypsy dress with no reason to pray to Mary. Who would be the sinless one to cast the first stone at her? That man did not deserve to live.

“Oh, Satan, oh, let me just once pass my fingers through her hair..."

They looked down at her.

“Esmeralda...”

Esmeralda.


	13. Le cabaret du val d'amour

Up the street of St. Denis, north of the city door on the outskirts and at the crossroads of Popincourt, there is a place resting in the middle of the plain. It is a blessed place, one where you can see the candles burning long into the night. As soon as you go there once, you find that you want to go every day.

This place is the Cabaret du Val d'Amour. The girls who serve there will cater to your needs for mere pennies. You don't need to have gold nor jewels, and speeches and words of love are unnecessary. All you need is a few pennies to make love.

The service is good there. Andalusians, Jews and Moors arrive from every port; travelers and merchants rest there for a while; Catalonians and Flemish alike will blow all their money in one night. The girls at Val d'Amour are very skilled at their work, and such skills are known far and wide.

That evening, I was feeling very gloomy. I ignored the fact that so much had happened since the men declared their desires toward Esmeralda - Quasimodo and Esmeralda had become friends, Dom Claude had officially realized that Esmeralda would destroy him, and, currently, Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers was having an encounter with a mysterious shadow. I ignored all the unwanted knowledge. All I wanted was to ignore everything and forget for a while.

The girls who serve at Val d'Amour listen to my cries of lovesickness. I suppose they don't really care, so long as I pay them what they deserve, but I like to fancy that they secretly understand. The prostitute, her back turned on God as she serves near-free lust, sympathizing with the homeless street poet suffering from unrequited, indifferent love.

Chances are, they listen to my money most.

I made my way through the cold, dark streets and soon came to the even colder, even darker Rue de St. Denis. The Cabaret was hidden in its corner, already busy. I wondered if I would have to wait; the idea upset me even more. But why would God make me wait? He had bestowed the knowledge on me and Val d'Amour was my respite. Did He  _want_ me to dwell on how those people were going to kill themselves in this dangerous game? Or did He just want me to leave? That second thought was just ridiculous - one didn't fall in love with the goods beneath the clothes at Val d'Amour. All you find are flowers for a night and pleasure for a day; the girls are very professional. God had never cared before, so why would He make me wait now?

Unfortunately, however, that was what He wanted; inside, I was told to wait, wait,  _wait_. I couldn't bear it, the great hole in my chest - I wanted to forget, dammit. I wanted to spend a night in pleasure and  _forget_. But the Narrator is always the last person to board the lifeboat to safety, because they're the least important. No one cares about him.

Another man came in, and I recognized him as Captain Phoebus. Then, strangely enough, there were girls free. They came over, absolutely purring.

“Pardon me, mademoiselles,” the good captain apologized. He kept his hands around their waists. “I'm waiting for the lovely Esmeralda. You know, she saw her destiny written in the palm of my hand!”

He holds out the hand for the girls, and they pouted. Then more drunk men – thieves and rouges, based on the look of them, though they could have been noblemen – came in and the girls took them, completely ignoring the miserable troubadour waiting for his share.

Eventually, I just grew too tired of sitting there. “Lousy service tonight,” I muttered, pushing open the door and walking back out onto that cold, wet street. Then I shook my head, unable to resist smiling. “Alas, Gringoire, you have no luck today.”

I felt cold and slid on my coat, not that it did any good. I shivered, blew on my fingertips, and went out into the night, thinking.


	14. La volputé

I suppose now is the time to explain myself. It only seems fitting to offer an explanation for the ominous “lovesickness” I spoke of previously.

I was born into a decent enough family – my father farmed the office of notary in Gonesse, and my mother was his lovingly faithful wife. However, I only have a few vague memories of them, as my father was hung by the Burgundians and my mother was murdered by the Picards when I was only six years old. To this day, I don't know why they died the ways they did; probably some sort of political scandal, but that is irrelevant.

So, at six years old, I was orphaned on the streets. Ten lost years went by; I frankly can't say how I lived through them. Soon I was fifteen or sixteen (thereabouts) and I fancied the notion of adopting some sort of trade so I could make actual money and perhaps even live life comfortably.

First I became a soldier, but I was not courageous enough. Next was the trade of a friar, but, alas, I was not devout enough, nor could I drink the required amounts. By then pretty desperate, I apprenticed myself to a Guild of Carpenters; sadly, that route didn't turn out well either, for I was not strong enough. I soon had the crazy notion of becoming a school-master. Ridiculous; I could not read or write, and I was dumber than an ass.

I was good for nothing, so the only profession left to me was that of a poet. It was an upsetting prospect, but what was there to do? Besides, the life of a poet is quite suiting for one pathetically worthless as I.

Some few months and fewer sous later, it finally entered my rather thick head that I would need to know how to read and write if I were to take on the profession of a poet. Like a black angel, Dom Claude – not yet the Archdeacon of Josas – came across me. I was lying in the gutter, upset by the sudden realization of where my life was going.

“What are you lying in the gutter for, boy?” he wondered. I had sat up, surprised that a priest - someone of such hierarchy! - was talking to little street riffraff like  _me._

“I... I...” What does one say to a priest? His robes were so pristine and black, not to mention free of holes and _clean_. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen such outrageously clean clothes.

He bent down and we were level with each other. Looking into those wise brown eyes, I began to feel even more intimidated.

“Well?” he asked. “Come, come, speak - when I ask someone a question, I expect an answer.”

“But I not know why I lie in the gutter, Father.” My _grammar!_ I went red in the face, suddenly realizing how stupid I must seem compared to him. My next words were minor mumbles, hardly worth remembering.

The priest looked me up and down. I wished my shirt wasn't so ratty and big, or my hair so greasy. I wanted to be worthy of this man in every way: appearance, intellect, life status. But instead I was a sorry little child with absolutely no worthy features.

“It cannot be because you are comfortable,” he noted. “Perhaps you should get up.” He grabbed my arm and we stood. “Come. I'll take you back to Notre Dame and you can explain a few things to me.”

I had spent many times simply standing in front of the great, beautiful cathedral, but I'd never actually stepped inside it. I gasped, nodding excitedly.

Everyone about him was better than me. He walked with a sort of dignity that I remember my father having had. He kept his glances brief and savorable, and with his extremely greater height, I felt even more minuscule. However, despite that, I was also awed.  _A priest! Talking to me!_ Me!

The interior of the church was even better than I had imagined. There were so many columns and such beautiful nooks and crannies - I fell behind. My mouth was agape and it grew difficult to breathe and I took in all that magnificent architecture. What struck me totally speechless and rooted me to my spot – still, today, I cannot look at it without sucking in a breath – was the great stained glass window. The sun cast its beams through the colored glass and painted rainbows. Standing there, looking up at that big round window, it felt as though the rays of Heaven were shining down on me.

“Do you like it?”

I jumped, startled by the voice; it was just the priest. I had forgotten he was there. Feeling struck dumb by something I couldn't quite place, I nodded slowly. He smiled softly, and it was only later that I would learn how petty it was compared to one of his full grins.

“Sometimes I forget how beautiful the church is,” he remarked, looking up at the window reverently. Here he paused. “It is good receive reminders.”

I wasn't sure how to respond to that, so I remained quiet. The priest sighed and made a gesture for me to step closer to him; I obeyed. He put his hands on my shoulders and bent his head down so he could get a better l look at me.

“What is your name?” How soft and velvety his voice was in the cold stillness of the cathedral. I began to hear some priests humming a hymn and blinked at him slowly.

“Pierre Gringoire.” I was hesitant, as if my name was a malediction or perhaps just simply not good enough.

“Tell me, Pierre Gringoire, what have you been doing with yourself?”

I mumbled a response and suddenly couldn't look at him.

“What?” he asked.

“I say...” More mumbling. His eyes narrowed.

“You are very impudent,” he stated. “Those sorts of traits will only get you in trouble, Pierre Gringoire.”

“I... I...” I swallowed, raising my gaze. “I be trying to 'come a poet. But I no read, no write. I good for nothing.”

His gaze softened. “Whatever you are," he said in a quiet voice, "you are good for something.”

Maybe it was pure pity, maybe he took a liking to me – hell, it could even have been some sort of charity for Our Lord Almighty. Either way, he took me in under his wing and turned my whole life around. He educated me and helped me grow beyond the dumb, homeless boy in the gutter.

I can't ever forget that, no matter what happened to him - I owed him too much. He was slowly turning to the Devil, but I was there for him. He ignored me now, saying I was too old for this and that and so much.

Oh, Claude, why couldn't you see? You were so intelligent, how could you not _know?_   Perhaps you did and just denied it. You wrote it off as blind devotion, maybe, or relief, and you might have been right. But however I felt about you, there were two things I was absolutely sure of.

I cared for you despite everything.

And you were going to die.

\+   +   +

I kicked at a stray pebble in frustration and groaned, leaning against the closest dwelling. It was a dilapidated old shack under the crazy delusion of it's living capabilities. There couldn't have been more than one room.

“Take me,” a young woman purred. “Take me if it is my destiny.”

It suddenly occurred to me that I knew that voice; she had spoken to me just the night before. _Esmeralda?_ I pulled myself away from the wall and peered through the cracked, musky old window. Through the grime and dust, I saw Esmeralda sitting on a bed, holding her arms out to none other than Captain Phoebus.

The good captain replied smugly, “Esmeralda, let us see if it is your destiny.” He stepped over to her and they clasped hands.

A shadow on the wall moved. I fixed my eyes on it, trying to figure out who it belonged to. It continued to move despite the obvious fact that everyone was still.

“Phoebus...” Esmeralda sighed.

The shadow separated itself from the wall. As much as I didn't want to, I knew who it was. A phantom monk. The Devil in disguise.

Phoebus smirked. “Esmeralda..."

The shadow raised a dagger and plunged it into the soldier's back. Phoebus fell forward, and Esmeralda threw herself on him, shrieking and trembling all over. My mind now a blank, I managed to see the shadow dash back into the wall, perhaps into another room. A window creaked open and I pulled myself away.


	15. Fatalité

_Poets of all nationalities and backgrounds are prone to soliloquies - it is a part of the foundation of what makes them what they are. Pierre Gringoire especially enjoys his long rants; it gets his mind back into working order nearly as effectively as a visit to Val d'Amour._

_Pierre Gringoire rejoins Reality by putting his pen down and standing up. He can't write anymore, even though there's still so many more horribles to come; currently, he has only reached the beginning of the end. Or is it the end of the beginning?_ Whichever. _He's losing control, it feels like. He isn't entirely sure what to make of it all anymore._

_It had all been so uncontrollable. Everything had been going according to the way it should. Now he knows the full story. He didn't know it then, but he sure as hell does now._

Was there any control? _he wonders._ Did any of us have any power over our lives? _With his knowledge of all that had been occurring, it seems doubtful to him. Everything had been played out for someone's entertainment. Some higher force had been bored and decided to have fun with the puny mortals below, labeling Pierre Gringoire as the storyteller. The only Innocent._

_Gringoire bangs his clenched fist against the fence-wall near him. It hurts, but he doesn't care._

_“Fate,” he murmurs. “Yes, Fate.” Perhaps all that talk he had been forced to hear of destiny and palm reading and Anarkia has finally began to make sense._

_“The mistress of our destinies,” he continues, beginning a cadent drumming with his fingers. “When you cross our path...” He drifts off, thinking of all the death that he could have prevented if he'd just done_  something.

_But he couldn't have. Surely he couldn't have. Whether you are a prince or a pauper, queen or a prostitute, you are at the mercy of Fate. Control is something we fancy we have, but it's all a lie._

_Everything is a lie._

_“You hold our lives in your hand,” the poet whispers, offering the sky a single miserable look._

**END ACT ONE**


	16. Florence

I still visited him. It was easy enough to forget what he had done when I reminded myself of all the good things he had done for me; and, after all, it wasn't as if he had  _killed_  the good captain. I put it out of my head.

Mostly.

A few weeks later, I went into his cloister-cell and found him reading from the only printed book he owned. I am not sure what the book was exactly: perhaps a religious tome, or maybe simply a scientific study. It was printed; that is enough description.

“Pierre Gringoire,” he greeted in a quiet little mumble. I gave him a half-smile and he set the book down. His entire world was crashing in around him, I knew, especially with Esmeralda in prison for his crime...a crime he had failed at.

Dom Claude rested his head in his hands. “Talk to me, Gringoire. I am so tired. Keep me awake with your prattle.”

Of all the seven deadly sins, lust is perhaps the most taxing on one's sleep.

“What do you want to hear?” I wondered.

He smiled weakly. “What do I want to hear...” He spoke as if what he wished to hear was too giant to state all at once, if at all. He paused. The priest clasped his hands as if in prayer and rested his chin on his thumbs. He drifted away for a moment, then rejoined me and the rest of the world where he belonged.

“Tell me about Florence,” he began, “and the Renaissance.” He sat up a little straighter. “Tell me about Bramante and the Hell of Dante.”

I looked at his printed book briefly, then focused my attention back to him. “In Florence, they say the world is round.”

“Round.” He shook his head. The idea is rather ridiculous, right?

“And that there may be other lands in this world,” I continued, sighing. Then I paused. “Ships are sailing the oceans now, Dom Claude, in search of the passage to India.”

“Luther will write the New Testament,” the priest added sadly. He looked over at his book and frowned. “We are at the dawn of a divided world, Gringoire.”

I nodded. “It's because of a certain Gutemberg; it's changed the face of the earth.”

“Those presses in Nuremburg,” he sighed. “Every second, they print-”

“Poems on paper,” I cut in, leaning on the edge of my stool, “speeches and tracts.”

“Revolutionary ideas,” he summed up, firm but soft. I added: “They sweep everything else aside. There's only room for "progress" now.”

I stood up and went over to his desk; I picked up the printed book and flipped it open to a random ugly page. “Small things outnumber big things.” I glanced up. Outside his widow, you could see the great cathedral perfectly. “Thus, literature will be the demise of architecture.”

“Schoolbooks will extinguish cathedrals,” he said, resting his hands above mine and pulling the book down so he could also look at it. I licked my lips and drew in a breath.

“The Bible will destroy the Church,” he murmured, “and men will kill God.” He looked up at me, and it was probably the closest we'd ever been and ever would be. “This will destroy that.”

I nodded slowly and he let go of the printed book, leaning back in his seat. I stayed where I was, flipping through the destructive work.

“This will destroy that,” I whispered, peering back out at the church, grand and magnificent and doomed against the sky.


	17. Les cloches

“The bells are quiet,” I remarked, looking at the church. Normally, they would always be ringing, regardless of hour or day. But Paris had lost its music. “The cathedral is silent.” I looked back at Frollo.

“Quasimodo is miserable,” I remarked. My heart pounded in my chest. _It can't be right to tell him,_ I thought.  _It can't be right to go against Fate._  I was the Narrator; I was supposed to meekly sit by and let things work their will - but I couldn't. He deserved some truth in my eyes. Just some. “Quasimodo's in love.”

Dom Claude yanked the book out of my grasp and looked away. “He hasn't rung the bells for the last three days,” he muttered. Then he stood up and went over to the window. “Quasimodo's sad." He lowered his gaze to the floor and added in a despondent tone: "He's gone mad.”

“Because he's lovesick,” we chimed. He turned and looked at me, face so  _knowing_ and yet so blank and calm - I couldn't breathe.

Misery. Love. Sadness. Insanity.

I found I kept sympathizing for the poor hunchback, relating to him. It was almost alarming.


	18. Où est-elle ?

Dom Claude insisted on walking me out of the church; it was a confusing bought of kindness. Normally, he would send me away and I would have to see myself out. I sometimes asked him to join me, but he always said that he was too busy for such frivolities.

So that day was some sort of treat. I considered asking why he had had a sudden change in heart, but, in the end, kept quiet. I think I know now.

We shut the door of his cell behind us and he turned back to lock it. Then the bells began to ring - there was no order, just utter chaos in great, loud peals.

“The bells,” I said. Frollo nodded, preoccupied.

“Perhaps Quasimodo has recovered from his afflictions,” he murmured. Whether it was from his tone or lack of volume, I knew that I was not to respond. The conversation was to come to an end as abruptly as it had started.

Outside, the sun had decided to pay Paris a visit. It was out there where Dom Claude suddenly broke the silence.

“Gringoire, where is your wife?” he wondered, leaning back against a wall. “We do not see her dance before Notre Dame anymore.” He pointed out at the Place du Parvis, which was indeed missing a certain gypsy girl.

I couldn't tell him. I couldn't tell him that Esmeralda was in prison. There was no need to, anyway, since he already knew – he was going to be the judge at her trial the following week – so why was he asking?

“To tell you the truth,” I began, already lying, “I don't know.” I shifted so I wasn't looking into those hawklike brown eyes. “You're a priest, I a poet; we don't share the same wives.”

I smiled at the irony of my words. “Yours is religion...” I gestured at the grand cathedral, then drew my hands back down. “Mine is poetry.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him sigh and shake his head.

“Where is she?” he asked again, his voice miserable and quiet now. “The streets of Paris are sad without your Esmeralda.”

 _Sad, if not dead._ I straightened up and looked back at him.

“She is alone in a tower,” I declared, smiling at him, “far away from those who fear that she'll bewitch them.” I rolled my wrist at him and winked.

He went pink in the face; I had made the Archdeacon uncomfortable. I can't remember any time previous that his cold, rough exterior faded away so quickly.

“Wh-What do you mean, poet?” he stammered, turning his entire body away with a gulp. “You speak with a forked tongue. Now,” he added, starting to regain ground, “stop evading the question and answer me: have you seen her?”

“No,  _Dom_ Claude.” That was the truth, at least. “And if I had, what would it matter? She's going to be hung for witchcraft even if the whole world goes to hell.”

“How do you kn-”

“Nothing,” I interrupted, for once glad that he wasn't looking at me.

 +   +   +

“Gringoire, do you know where my Esmeralda is?”

_Why does everyone want to know where she is?_  I wondered, looking at Clopin.  _Or, more importantly, why does everyone think that_  I _know where she is?_  They were right, or course, not that I cared to admit it.

“Where is she?” Clopin repeated. He waved at his kingdom. “The Court of Miracles has lost its queen.”

_She is like a swallow,_  I thought, recalling Esmeralda's current state of surroundings,  _whose wings have been clipped._

I licked my lips. The girl was going to hang. It was her destiny. But...she didn't deserve it. None of them deserved it. And Clopin looked so upset...perhaps...

Looking over my shoulder, as if Claude Frollo was still there, waiting for an answer I wasn't allowed to give him, I leaned closer to Clopin. “You will find her in the Prison de la Sante,” I whispered. “If you don't save her, she will be sentenced to hang.” I grabbed my neck for extra melodrama and Clopin stepped away.

“I've heard enough,” he said; “don't tell me anymore.”

I frowned and turned away.

At least Esmeralda only had her life to worry about.


	19. Visite de Frollo à Esmeralda

The refugees tried to break Esmeralda out of prison. The plot failed, of course, and the Prison de la Sante soon had never been more full; it was bursting from the seams with prisoners.

One of those prisoners was given a death sentence. She fought, protested, but when one is put to the question, you have no choice but to relent, albeit reluctantly. Poor gypsy girl; all she wanted was for Phoebus to come take her away from France and to the hills of Andalusia.

The priest seemed to have lost his faith in God. He thought Esmeralda was a demon of Hell, and when she went back to the pit, he would go with her, follow her for all eternity, and her Hell would be Paradise for him.

Phoebus's fiancee was desperate. She made a stand: I will love you only if the Zingara hangs. The good captain had no choice but to agree – Fleur-de-lys was his one source of monetary income, and he'd never loved the witch anyway, just Fleur-de-lys.

The hunchback sat in his belltower, missing Esmeralda. He had no way to know if she was alive, dead – why, she may even have run off with Phoebus. He didn't know.

Time seemed to crawl by at a snail's pace. Soon, _something_  would happen.  _Something._  It would be climactic and change the face of all these happenings. But what was it? Dammit,  _what?_

I couldn't sleep, same as Dom Claude. He tossed and turned, feeling hot hands caress his entire body, but I wasn't so... Fortunate? Unfortunate? Tortured.

I wrote, though I can't remember what. It must have been nonsense, simply meant to pass the time before the climactic incident occurred. I wrote, and the night crept by and melted into morning. Looking out a little window, I could see that the sun was beginning to rise - it had to be about four-thirty in the morning. I remembered that Esmeralda was to die in a couple hours and put down my pen.  _Thunk._

She was huddled in her prison cell, cold and hungry. She didn't know. She couldn't know. Maybe it would be better that way; she'd be led out to the gibbet and die soon after. One breath of hope before it all ended. After all, what is death? An uncomfortable moment, a tollgate, the transit from little to nothing.

The gypsy had saved me from my own hanging. Oh, it seemed like ages ago! Could it really have been only a month? The world seemed to be crashing down, but elevated by a simple little twig. A strong, mighty twig that refused to break.

_Maybe I should try and save her,_  I thought.  _Repay a debt._

Then I really thought about it.

“Bah, no!” I shook my head at the very notion. “Risk my own neck? Besides, that would be going against their fates.”

Claude Frollo suddenly stirred differently. He sat up and began to get dressed; he threw his hood over his head and left the church.

_Oh no._

He wouldn't – couldn't. What I knew he was about to do couldn't be right. That would be going too far.

_There's nothing to be done,_  I reminded myself. I bit my lip and muttered: “Nothing.”

I sat there, drumming my fingers on the tabletop. “Nothing,” I repeated. “To act would be going against Fate itself, really...”

The drumming sped up. I knew that two people's lives were about to be ruined, but there was nothing to do! What was going to happen was what was going to happen.

I stood up and slid on my coat.


	20. Un matin tu dansais

“You don't understand, I  _need_  to see her,” I protested.

“Be on your way,” the soldier replied coldly, once again pointing towards the exit. “Street trash aren't allowed to see the prisoners.”

“Street trash!” I breathed. “I can read and write, I'll wager you can't!”

He rolled his eyes. “Be on your way.”

“Lives are at sake!” I protested.

“She is sentenced to hang," he stated; "there is nothing you can do, now  _be on your way_.”

“Please, just let me see her a second. It's all I need-”

Before I could continue on to say "to stop him," the soldier pointed his weapon at me. “Be on your way.”

I stepped back, eyeing the blade and trying to think up a new idea. “The Archdeacon himself sent me!”

“The Archdeacon?” he repeated, lowering his weapon.

“Yes! Now let me by.”

“No. You could be lying.” He looked me up and down. “You don't look like a priest.”

“I-I'm not. I'm...” I stared at the great wood door leading down to the hellish dungeons, pausing. “I'm an old friend. He said that I would just have to mention his name and I'd be let by.”

“Mention then.”

“Monsieur the Reverend Archdeacon of Josas Dom Claude Frollo, seigneur to the fief of Tirechappe, former student of the Université de Paris, etcetera, etcetera - now.” I pushed him aside. “Let me through!”

The soldier didn't move for such a long time. Didn't he realize that time was of the essence? I shot him a look and he reached for his belt, pulling out the key ring.

“If you're lying to me, two will be at the gibbet today.” He unlocked the door, pulling it open.

“Yes, good soldier. Thank you and godspeed!”

Without another word, I shoved him aside and dashed down the staircase.


	21. Libérés

By the time I finally got down to the lowest level of the dungeons, so much had happened. In all my focus on Dom Claude, I had not noticed that someone else followed him to the prison. My panic had been mockingly unjustified.

The refugees were all swarming the lower level of the dungeon, screaming, “We're free!” I saw Esmeralda and Clopin embrace. Quasimodo was limping around, grinning like a happy old dog. “...And I opened the cage!” he proudly announced to any and all who would listen. “They've escaped! They'll run away!”

It was a sea of white with Quasimodo as a splash of red. I pushed through them all, but no black rock. Along the sides of the room were rows of open doors that went on for millennium. Desperate by that point, I went to the side of the room and peeked into the cells. The one farthest from the door was still occupied.

Dom Claude was lying on the floor. Even though I knew he was alive, that Quasimodo would kill him later on, I panicked. Bending down, I shook him.

“Dom Claude!” I hissed. “Dom Claude!”

He groaned and sat up, rubbing the back of his neck and wincing. Then he saw me. “What are  _you_  doing here?” he wondered.

“It doesn't matter,” I replied. In the other room, the refugees were shouting, “Asylum! Asylum!”

“Dom Claude, listen. The refugees-”

“I don't care.” His fingers flexed, he began to rub his head. His eyes sparkled with tears.

“They demand the right to asylum!”

“What does it matter.”

“Then give them the right to asylum!”

“No!” he snapped. Sighing, Frollo stood up and tipped off to the side; he reached out and pressed his hands against the wall for support. He was whispering things to himself.

“If you won't," I said. "Quasimodo will. He's a church official, you know he can.”

“Then let the damn hunchback grant them asylum! Gringoire...” He turned, resting his body against the mildewy wall. “You don't know.”

But I did. He was suffering from a terrible blow, both literally and figuratively. Regardless, however, it did not excuse his actions, despite his crippled soul.

“They demand the right to asylum,” I repeated. “Father, have you abandoned Him so much as to forget your duties?”

He groaned and looked at me, eyes drooping and breathing deep. He was silent a moment, then told me everything with a single word.

“Yes.”


	22. Lune

“Yes.”

_Pierre Gringoire leans against the balustrade of the Pont-au-Change. It's completely dark now, but the moon is bright enough that he can see clearly enough for memories of the angel to surface. He looks down into the water and sees himself; he stares. His long, dark hair is carelessly falling forward, his skin is pale, and he's become hunched over...similar to the way Dom Claude used to get when he was tense..._

_He swallows, blinking away his tears, and looks back up, at the sky. The crescent sliver nearly blinds him and he shakes his head._

_“Moon,” he says aloud, “you, shining high above, upon the roofs of Paris.” He presses his hand to his cheek and puts his elbow on the bridge rail. “See how a man can suffer from love.”_

_The moon makes no comment, no sign of even recognizing the poet's existence. He lowers his hand, hanging his head to the point of his neck aching, and he walks down the bridge, left hand brushing along the stone._

_“Beautiful, solitary star,” he begins, daring to look up again, “You fade away with the coming of day.” The moon didn't have to witness pain all the time, only half the day. “Moon, hear coming up to you the song of the earth.”_

_Pierre Gringoire gestured around. “Listen, moon, to this cry of a man in pain. For him, a million stars mean nothing to the eyes of the one he loves. A deadly love,” he adds, pausing. He draws in a breath. “Moon...” He drifts off._

_Pierre Gringoire hugs himself, fighting away the burning sensation in his eyes. There had been nothing he could have done, but he feels as though he had made such a terrible mistake, standing by and letting everyone - by letting_ the priest _\- be their...his own demise._

_“Moon,” he croaks out, peering up, “shining high above before the break of day. Please, Moon, hear the howling heart of the human beast. It's the plaint of Quasimodo.”_

_The moon would not listen whether it was the plaint of the whole world, which, in truth, it was. The moon was dazzling, sparkling in the dark night. Pierre Gringoire looks at it._

_“He cries in mad despair,” he continues, “and his voice goes up hill, down dale - flying up to you, Moon.”_

But you have no pity, _he thinks._ There is no pity. Pity is just a word now. If pity was an actual thing, those people would still be here.

_“Moon,” he mumbles, “watch over this strange world that joins its voice with choirs of angels.”_   So much death.

_Pierre Gringoire turns and retraces his steps. However, he can't leave the bridge. He looks back up at the celestial body, which is about to be hidden by a menacing cloud._

_“Moon,” he whispers, “you, shining high above as light for my pen. Please, you must see how a man can suffer from love.”_

_The moon disappears, still showing no sign of caring. Gringoire sighs quietly and leaves the bridge, muttering, “From love...”_


	23. Dieu, que le monde est injuste

“You need to go,” he told me; “it is forbidden for non-clergymen to be in the cloisters after the sun sets.”

What to say to that. I knew he could care less about those religious rules, but how to explain such knowledge?

“I know what you tried to do to Esmeralda,” I eventually found myself blurting.

He was silent for a moment, resting his head on his desk. I took the silence as an opportunity to sit on a small little patch of the desk that wasn't cluttered with books and papers.

“You cannot know,” he gasped in a small voice, head still down. “You _can't.”_

“You forced yourself on her,” I declared. “If Quasimodo hadn't rescued the refugees when he did...” I trailed off and swallowed. I wanted to say more, to scold him, to weep and ask why he had tried to do that to a girl more than half his age, but I stayed quiet.

“I don't know what's happening,” he admitted, pulling his arms over his head. “I don't...can't...”

“Maybe what you need is some time away,” I suggested carefully. “You're stressed. Not thinking clearly.”

“I am thinking clearly, dammit, that's the problem!” He pulled himself off the desk and stood up. “Gringoire... Just go.”

“How can I?” I wondered. “You know the refugees aren't going to take kindly to your decree.”

“To hell with them.” He hit the wall in frustration. “To hell with everything.”

“They want asylum,” I reminded him. “You've told them that they can't and never will get asylum. You've forbidden it.” I shook my head and thumped my heels against the side of his desk. “They'll be back to join their sister in the church.”

“Why can you not understand, Gringoire?” he snapped, clutching at his robes. He stuck his head out the window and looked up. “I don't care anymore. I don't. _Care._ Now get out!”

“Dom Claude, I don't think I can.” I stood up and walked over to him. “And why can't I stay? You allowed me to stay years ago.”

He didn't say anything, just moaned to himself and rested his head against the side of the window.

“Remember?” I asked softly, grabbing his arm; he quickly yanked it away from me and leaned back, into the window. “You told me it wasn't safe for me to be running around in the night. You stayed up late, working, and I slept right there, on your cot. Remember?” I felt desperate. Upset. How could he have tried to do that to Esmeralda?

“I was foolish to ignore the rules,” he muttered. “Very foolish.” He ran the back of his hand along his forehead, which was wet with perspiration. “And you are no longer a vulnerable child, Gringoire. Now  _get out_.”

He was very firm to the point. I looked down at the floor, swallowed, then made my way for the door. In the threshold, I paused and looked back at him; he was making his shaky way back to his desk.

“You think you're alone, Dom Claude,” I said, “but you're wrong. Everyone's suffering.”

He looked at me helplessly. But before he could reply, I pushed open the door and stepped out, slamming it shut behind me.

I hope he thought about my words. I hope he thought about them long and hard.

Back in the church, I found that I was led to a shrine; a cross, gilt and expensive and rather an eyesore. I looked up at it, quiet.

“I can see why he has trouble believing in you,” I eventually said to no one in particular.


	24. L'attaque de Notre Dame

"Asylum!"

I looked away from the Bible I'd been reading. I had never left the cathedral, deciding to stay; I was being ridiculous. He had made his decision, and I had made mine. But I stayed.

"Asylum!"

I walked over to the nearest window and looked out. It was half-past three in the morning, and the refugees were banging on the door of Notre Dame. My hypothesis on their reaction to Frollo's decree was correct. 

 _Dom Claude, please just give them their asylum_ , I thought.

"Asylum!” the refugees cried, pounding their fists on the wooden door. “Asylum! Asylum! Asylum!”

Soldiers buzzed everywhere, trying to pull them away; a few refugees managed to slip inside.

Then I saw Frollo - when had he gone outside?

“Soldiers of the King!” he shouted, raising his voice for the first time in years, “I exhort you to cross this door.” He gestured to the great entrance of the church. “In all conscience, in the name of decency, I give you permission to break the right..." He paused and sucked in a breath. "To asylum.”

 _It seems he does care now,_  I thought, frowning. He was taking a stand, getting rid of the gypsy once and for all.

“Out the outlaws!” Captain Phoebus and his soldiers yelled. “Out the Vagabonds! Out! Out! Out!”

The soldiers ran to the doors and threw them open, dragging the screaming refugees into the Place du Parvis. I saw Clopin standing on Notre Dame's porch, watching and screaming.

“We are foreigners!” the refugees shouted. “Outlaws, men and women who are homeless! Oh, Notre Dame, we beseech you for asylum!”

The representative of Notre Dame, the Archdeacon himself, he seemed too occupied with the sudden presence of Esmeralda. Perhaps he was having second thoughts.

Everyone shouted.

“Out the outlaws!”

“We beseech you for asylum!”

They fought. It was all repetitive fighting, a battle over what. Asylum? Rights? Belonging? I'm not entirely sure, though it seemed like a good enough cause at the time. Now it seems pathetic. Pointless.

Things changed. Clopin rushed forward and the soldiers beat him down. He fell and Esmeralda followed after him. She threw herself on her adoptive father's body and I saw him talking to her. He gasped, reached up, and then collapsed.

He moved no more.

 _One gone_ , I thought.

Esmeralda stared at his body, frozen, unmoving. Eventually, the sky began to turn red and she stood, leading the refugees.

“We are foreigners!” she shouted, her voice only cracking a small amount. “Outlaws, men and women who are homeless!”

I saw Dom Claude moving closer to her. He walked his conflicted walk, with his arms at his side, back hunched, and hands raised in front of him. He paused, walked a few steps, and then undid his steps. He was more torn than Phoebus had been.

“They're a thousand or more at the city gates!” I shouted down to him. He paused, seeming to somehow hear me; he looked up in my direction. “Soon they'll be ten thousand, then a hundred thousand!” I leaned farther out, so he must have seen me. “The world will change, Dom Claude, and intermix. They'll be millions!”

I reached out to him and he backed away.

“And they will all demand asylum!” I shouted.

“Out the outlaws!”

“Asylum!”

My point made, I decided suddenly that I didn't care that all their ends were laid out for them – one death was too many. I ducked back inside and hurried down the steps, preparing to talk sense into the Archdeacon.

Before someone else got killed.


	25. Déportés

But of course everything had suddenly gone all wrong by the time I stepped out of the church. The refugees were all bound and the soldiers were making sure they didn't go anywhere; Esmeralda had returned to Clopin's body. I shook my head, denying.  _No,_  I thought. _It can't be the end yet - it can't be time._

I hurried over to Dom Claude, who was standing off to the side with his arms wrapped around his body.

“Girl Esmeralda,” Captain Phoebus said emotionlessly, as if he hadn't had plans to steal the gypsy's virginity the month before, “you will be hanged for the crime of sorcery.”

“No,” I whispered, whirling to face the priest; his face had gone white. “Claude, you have to do something!”

“There's nothing to be done,” he declared.

“Claude!” I shrieked, reaching out to him. He frowned at me, backing away, and I realized that I had been informal. I decided I didn't care. “You-You have to. You're the only one here who can.”

“ 'Tis time she pay for her sins,” he mumbled, detached.

I shook my head at him and opened my mouth, struggling to find words. What I eventually said was, “Are you a priest or a monster?”

“As for you, outlaws, you will be expelled,” Phoebus continued.

Dom Claude stared at me and a tear softly slid down his face. Eventually, he blinked and the small trace of emotion disappeared. “Is there a difference?” he wondered softly.

The soldiers lead the still-fighting refugees away. I watched, helplessly wishing I'd done something earlier.

Two soldiers grabbed Esmeralda and yanked her roughly off of Clopin's dead body. They dragged her to the gibbet.

“Esmeralda,” I gasped, turning to face Frollo.

But he was gone.


	26. Mon maître, mon sauveur

The sun was beginning to rise. Esmeralda stood at the gibbet, waiting for the moon to disappear and the sun to take her place. A beam of light landed on the church, and I looked to where it landed. There, I saw Dom Claude hugging himself; Quasimodo was hanging on one of the gargoyles, talking to him.

Time for penance.

They talked. I couldn't hear their words, nor see their facial expressions. I found myself thankful, that I didn't want to know what they were saying.

Dom Claude has his hood on. He was hiding from everything; perhaps he was in as much denial as I was.

And then the sun came. Like the beautiful angel she was, Esmeralda hung, seeming to rise with invisible wings as her soul flew to the heaven of the pagans. I grabbed my neck, trying not to hear the priest's maniacal laughter.

“Frollo!” Quasimodo roared. I opened my tear-stained eyes and looked up at the church.

Nothing happened at first, not even a scream, but then...then... Then.

Then Dom Claude came out of the church. He was somehow still pulling himself forward on the ground, despite how inhuman the position of his neck was and how much pain he was in. Somehow, by some freak of nature, some joke of God, he was still alive! He crawled forward, onto the porch we had spent so many wonderful hours hours admiring together, and I was able to see him fully, look at every broken bone, every twisted limb...

He crawled forward, and then...then... Then.

He was gone and Quasimodo was the only one left to go.

But I didn't need to stay to watch him follow the executioners to Montfaucon, curl around Esmeralda's lifeless body and starve himself to death, all while begging for the gypsy to dance, to sing once more for him. I turned, left that Place de la Mort, and I ran and ran and ran and I didn't look back and now, here I am, guilty and overwhelmed with remorse.

 ~~I picked up my pen~~  
  
~~What~~

I should have done something.


	27. Finale

You watched it and saw all the stories, the different tales interwoven in a confused drama. There was poor, sweet little Esmeralda, hopelessly smitten with the conflicted soldier, Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers. The good captain couldn't decide between Esmeralda and his betrothed, the lovely Fleur-de-lys. Fleur-de-lys, meanwhile, was lost, trying to save her failing relationship with Phoebus – at any cost.

You also saw Clopin, working to make an equal place for himself and the other refugees. But he was stopped by Dom Claude Frollo, the cold archdeacon of Notre Dame. Dom Claude had a few troubles of his own, and they came haunt him in the night.

All those troubles, all those stories. Pierre Gringoire was the one to tell their tales, for they could not do it themselves. No one ever questioned his word, wondered how he knew the things he did.

No one ever asked what my story is. No one wondered. He was simply the Narrator.


End file.
